


with eyes like these (who sees anybody else)

by cealesti



Series: anybody else [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Blood Prejudice, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, No character bashing, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Underage Drinking, Unreliable Narrator, You Decide, technically underage but they're only one year apart so does it matter, the author tried their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cealesti/pseuds/cealesti
Summary: Tom Riddle is Slytherin’s poster boy, a humbling tale of hardship and perseverance, a delight to professors and students alike.Tom Riddle is the unofficial leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, and he's well on his way to plotting a House wide take over.Tom Riddle is fifteen, nearly sixteen, and he has a lot of ideas, but no idea of who is, or what he really wants to do.Enter Harry Evans, and his merry band of horrible relatives.[or: a thesis on self-fulfilling prophecies]A rewrite of "Ridiculous"
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: anybody else [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077812
Comments: 88
Kudos: 303





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of "Ridiculous", a fic I started years ago and finally decided to work on again due to the COVID-19 pandemic and the obscene amount of time I've had to stay at home. I hope everyone is staying safe to the best of their ability!  
> I have about 10 chapters fully ready to post, and am currently working on the ones that come next. Not sure if I can guarantee a very consistent updating schedule, just because I want to avoid a very large time in between batches of chapters. Also, like in the previous version of this fic, there will be a companion piece from other POVs which I'll be posting when the time is right. You don't need to read it to follow the main continuity, but it does offer some extra insight and the timing of the chapter publication will have some relevance. But we'll see how this goes!
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy <3

Slughorn _always_ picks the Slytherin groups for the projects in his subject.

He knows how his students work, their weaknesses and strengths, and, notably, their grading and standing. Their performance reflects on him, as the Potions professor and, doubly, as Head of House. So, while he’ll allow every other House to fend for themselves, he often ends up being quite hands-on in his handling of Slytherin House.

The morning dawns sunny, and surprisingly warm for October in the Highlands, on the day they’re due to start their project. As expected, here’s a new note pinned to the notice board in their Common Room, and the fifth years make sure to pass by and check their assigned groups.

“Well,” Druella Rosier says, blonde hair pinned up in an elaborate hairdo and her expression supremely unimpressed. “Fuck.”

Tom Riddle doesn’t echo her sentiments aloud, but he does empathize.

He’s slightly late to his first class of the morning, which is, coincidentally enough, Potions. It’s been somewhat of a constant this year, the shiny Prefect badge on his lapel often means he’ll be asked to walk some errant first years to their respective classrooms. When he steps foot in the Potions classroom, luminance low and air flooded with exotic fumes, he’s not surprised by the sight that awaits him.

Abraxas Malfoy and Druella, sharing a workstation and sitting with as much distance between them as they possibly can manage. Florence Fawley and Elina Greengrass, heads bent together as they whisper animatedly back and forth. Orion Black and Ivor Lestrange already sorting through their syllabus and jotting down notes.

And there, right in the middle of the classroom, his empty seat - right next to one _Harry Evans_.

Let’s backtrack.

Tom Marvolo Riddle prides himself on being Hogwarts’ star student, beloved by students and faculty alike. He’s an inspiring tale of humble origins and unbound talent, of overcoming hardship and rising above one’s station. He’s one of the brightest minds that has ever crossed the school, walked its halls, and slept in its rooms. He’s polite, he’s charming, he’s - 

_(terrifying and awful and amazing in equal measure)_

\- perfect.

Harry Evans is a newcomer. He’d arrived that year, along with a bushy-haired girl and two redheaded siblings. _Cousins_ , Dippet said, _Homeschooled_ by aunts and uncles until two of them had met a tragic demise, courtesy of Grindelwald’s rampaging reign of terror. Their remaining guardians could not afford to continue being their sole providers of their education and had decided to send the children in their care to Hogwarts.

They’re an odd bunch, to say the least. Closed off and tight-lipped, slightly aloof. They weren’t the only students in the castle who’d suffered losses to Grindelwald’s cause, few and far between as the case might be, but they were the only students who were _known_ to have directly faced the stink and horror of war and, as such, their behaviour is usually excused by mourning.

_(Known, of course, because that wasn’t quite right; not when Tom still has the bitter tang of fear, of ruin sitting on his tongue after a summer spent in the delipidated ruins of Muggle London. Not when he still flinches at the shriek of planes overhead. Others probably feel it as well; Muggleborns and Muggle raised kids with the rotten luck of being stuck in the middle of a Muggle war. But none of that matters to this sheltered, self-important world of wizards and so Tom keeps his mouth shut._

_He suspects that so do others.)_

But there was something - _odd_ about them. Something almost foreign.

Tom braves the space between his door and the desk in confident strides, pointedly ignoring the commiserating glance Abraxas throws at him.

“Tom!” Beams Slughorn, bustling around the classroom while they wait for the Hufflepuffs to trickle in.

Tom pastes a polite smile on his face. “Professor Slughorn. How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, I’m doing rather well, m’boy. Rather well, yes. Say, I’m quite sure you saw the group assignments, yes? Ah, good, good. I trust you understood the logic behind your assigned partner?”

The problem is that yes, Tom understands. But, somehow, he truly didn’t see it coming.

“Harry is still getting used to the school.” Tom answers, straightening his shoulders into a serious, concerned posture. “I imagine a group project of this magnitude, what with his _particular_ education, might be a bit daunting.”

Slughorn’s walrus-like moustache quivers. “Quite, indeed! I know that you’ll help him along, Tom. Brilliant as you are, I trust my very best student to be up to the job!”

Tom’s smile strains. “Of course.”

“Jolly good, I knew I could count on you, Tom! Oh certainly, do sit down, class is about to start -”

Their workstation is still quite bare, bar Evans’ second-hand school book, quill, ink bottle, and blank parchment. Tom sits on the bench and starts taking out his own stationery while he glances at the other boy out of the corner of his eye.

It’s hard to explain exactly why this boy keeps catching his eye, keeps insistently tugging at his interest in a way few things have before. But, he supposes, it might have started when Evans didn’t follow his relatives into the lion’s den - when he sat down at the table of snakes and _looked_ at Tom with an odd type of recognition in his eyes, which were the eeriest green that Tom had ever seen -

The set of Evans’ shoulders is tense, his expression focused on the parchment in front of him with the sort of single-mindedness that denotes intent. Like he’s scared his gaze will wander if he loses control for a single second.

Slughorn starts the class with his usual theatrics, which are as condescending as they are annoying. They’re usually entertaining enough to provide enjoyment, and Tom appreciates the calm ambience of his classes, the opportunity they offer to _watch_ . Besides the subject, besides the _magic_ , Tom likes to watch the teachers, the students; he likes to figure out how they _tick_ \- people are always more honest when they think no one is looking.

So, although he and Evans have yet to exchange more than cursory pleasantries, Tom hasn’t been sitting idly by. He’s observed the easily struck friendship with Orion, the tentative camaraderie with Druella. Evans’ effortlessness in spellcasting and disinterest in anything theoretical. His heavy glance, burning into the back of Tom’s neck, when Evans thinks Tom isn’t paying attention.

The undercurrent of _tension_ that lines their every stilted conversation. It’s not fear, it’s not shyness, it’s not _dislike_ -

It feels like _resonance_.

As soon as Slughorn gives the groups free rein to discuss and elaborate their project proposal, Tom briskly turns around and offers Evans his most genuine smile.

“So,” He starts with, casual as can be. “I happened to notice that you were listening in on my conversation with Slughorn, earlier. I apologize for the indiscretion - it’s not very pleasant to talk about people behind their backs.”

Evans eyes him, consideringly. “No.” He says, at last. “It isn’t, but I’m not exactly acing this class, am I? And well, he’s our Head of House.” Harry’s mouth twists into something wry. “It probably reflects badly on him if I fuck up too majorly.”

 _So, there’s some Slytherin to you, after all_ , Tom thinks, pleased. _Good_.

“Quite.” He agrees out loud, not masking his fondness for the eccentric professor. “He’s… a very particular person.”

“He’s a spider.” Evans corrects dryly. “But that’s okay, I suppose. He seems alright.” He tilts his chin towards the board, where Slughorn has written down the requirements for their project proposal. “Any ideas for this project thing? We’ve established I’m not good at this. I’d have to be a lot blinder than I am to miss that _you_ are very good at this. Do you have any ideas?”

Abraxas _hates_ this boy. Hates his bluntness, how he never takes a slight sitting down. He’s brazen and opinionated, as open with his rage as he is with his easy affection. It offends poor Abraxas’ delicate, pureblood sensibilities, a lot more than Tom’s unpolished manners and curt retorts back in first year had ever managed to.

Orion _adores_ this boy. Awes over his simplicity, how he never backs down from a fight. He’s easy-going and sharp-witted, not afraid to toe over the line of propriety. It delights Orion to rebel against his family’s strict upbringing by becoming quick friends with someone who so clearly does not care one whit for anything he’s been taught to cherish.

Tom thinks none of them have quite got it right. The way Evans talks makes it seem like he’s in on a joke no one else has quite got yet. There’s a tilt to his mouth and a tinge to his voice that betray a near constant state of amusement, which is as galling as it is confusing. He’s blunt and kind, certainly. But there’s an edge to him that Tom finds strangely familiar.

Harry Evans is, in a word, intriguing.

He’s intriguing in a way Tom has never encountered before and that makes him downright fascinating.

Tom is, at his core, a thief. He likes pretty, shiny things, like soft fabrics and expensive jewelry. He likes rare books and valuable artifacts, advantageous connections to use and abuse, and intelligent allies to surround himself with. Something in the back of his mind has been whispering that Harry Evans more than fits that bill.

Tom thinks it’s time to put that theory to test.

“Amortentia.” He states, noticing that he’s kept silent for longer than intended. Evans’ reaction is nearly comical, with his widening eyes and the nearly tangible awkwardness that surrounds him, so Tom pats himself on the back for provoking such blatant surprise. And well, if Evans never backs down from a challenge - “That is, of course, if you’re feeling up to it.”

And Tom _smiles_.

Evans blinks once, twice. The gears move behind his eyes and, when he smiles back, it’s small and sharp.

“Sure.” He agrees, tone light and eyes bright.

Killing curse green, Tom notices with slowly mounting giddiness.

He rather thinks this is building up to be a very interesting year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a comment a day makes the author feel determined and validated


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I'll post one of the chapters I already have ready of arc 1 whenever I finish the first draft of a chapter of arc 2. So cheers for uni exam season and for the amount of time that took.

After that pivotal Potions class, Tom spends the entire day insinuating himself into Evans’ space. And then, he continues doing the same thing on the next day. And then, the day after that. It doesn’t really matter _where_ they are; in class, during meals, in the library, in the Common Room - any space available, as long as it is free of Gryffindor relatives, is now Tom’s.

Abraxas and Ivor are, predictably, miffed about this development. Orion, on the other hand, is overjoyed. This new arrangement results in one very bemused Evans, a curious Druella, and two newcomers in the form of Druella’s dorm mates, Fawley and Greengrass, who have not failed to notice the sudden shift in the dynamics of their year mates, and are eager to discover its cause.

_(Neither, Tom is sure, have the upper years.)_

If anyone were to ask, Tom has the answer, whip-sharp and ready on the tip of his tongue: He’s doing research.

He’s learnt a lot, so far. Evans is an early riser. He moves easily and silently, with the expertise of one who is used to sneaking around. In fact, he makes no sound at all when he’s getting ready in the morning, footsteps soft and further muffled by a warm, carpeted floor. He’s placed a silencing charm around the perimeter of his bed - maybe he’s a vocal dreamer, though Tom is willing to bet on _nightmares_. 

He tends to have breakfast at the Gryffindor table with his relatives, but he does seem to favour Slytherin for the remaining meals. He eats little and eats quickly. It’s a behaviour that tickles at the back of Tom’s mind in a most bothersome fashion, but he can’t quite pinpoint _why_.

No one asks Tom about his obviously altered routine, despite Abraxas’ magnificent scowls. The hierarchy in Slytherin is House wide, but it does splinter off into smaller, contained branches in each year group. Even the first years are forced to quickly adapt and learn how to use their strengths to rise above, whether that means relying on their riches, on their family name, or individual virtues. A year like Tom’s own, that brought along the Malfoy and Black heirs in close quarters, was the sort that might never achieve a majority or clear advantage, and instead result in fractured and broken factions - or, at least, that’s what the older years used to whisper about when they thought no one was listening.

Luckily, Tom Riddle came along to solve that pesky little problem.

That means that when he turns around and does something unexpected - there are few who are willing to question it, fewer still who are willing to confront him. So Abraxas may look contrite and whine his displeasure away, Ivor may grow quiet and Elina Greengrass may watch the proceedings with rapt attention. But the matter won’t be contested, or argued about, or put under scrutiny. They’ve learnt to shut up and follow along.

And so, Tom continues on.

*

It’s Orion who officially breaks the ice.

They’re in the Common Room at the end of a very long week, sitting back and letting their minds wander after a gruelling OWL level Transfiguration class. Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes and condescending, grandfatherly attitude are a strain on Tom’s patience and endurance, one that he does not need, and so he’s allowing himself to slouch, ever so slightly, on the plush couch he tends to occupy by himself.

The Common Room isn’t very full - some NEWT students pulling at their hair where they sit at the tables next to the bookshelves in the far east wall, some younger years milling about and playing a game of gobstones as they waste time until their last class of the day.

Abraxas is curled up on the armchair next to Tom’s, Ivor sitting on the floor between them and reading a novel. It would be rather peaceful, idyllic even, if not for Orion - who is nearly _buzzing_ with nervous energy.

Tom has been trying to ignore him. His fidgeting, his darting glances, his quickly opening and closing mouth, for nearly fifteen minutes. By the end of that period, his patience tethers by a very thin fray, and so Tom gives it up as a bad job. He turns his neck only slightly, narrows his eyes at Orion’s abashed expression, and bites out, “ _What.”_

Orion clears his throat. “Well, since we’ve been stalking Harry these last few days,” And here he gifts Tom the sort of look that always sends a jolt through him and reminds him that yes, Orion is _the Black Family Heir_ , “It seems silly not to invite him over, what with all this empty space.”

Abraxas squawks, flailing around in his chair as he tries to sit up amidst his indignation, but Tom is quicker.

“Sure,” He says, tone mild, and ignoring the way his spine positively tingles. “Why not?”

And so Orion smiles and darts off, quick as a fox. When he comes back he’s dragging Evans by the arm. The tight set of Evans’ jaw betrays his wariness at the situation and present company, but there’s a glint of interest behind those glasses that Tom drinks in greedily. The sudden presence of his newest research topic is enough to startle his drained brain into overdrive. A restlessness starts to overcome him, creeping up from his feet to his calves, spreading through his body. Feeling like he’d just downed a Pepper Up, Tom straightens from his slouch, crossing a leg over the other.

He relishes as he sees the rest of his little group instinctively respond to his tangible change in disposition, how they rearrange themselves in the available seats. He’s not sure they’re fully aware of it, Orion and even Druella who’d arrived trailing behind Evans. It doesn't seem conscious or purposeful, how they relegate Evans to his own little corner, how they match Tom’s cues and Tom’s subtly manifested interest in this conversation. He’s not sure it’s conscious, but he relishes it regardless.

Evans stares him down, a blazing green lighting up behind round and smudged lenses. 

A metaphor made flesh.

“How are you finding Hogwarts?” Tom asks, his smile a studied politeness. Evans responds to Tom’s carefully dolled out courtesy with a strange blend of amusement and suspicion, as if he can divine it false.

Which is absurd. None other can.

“It’s nice,” Evans answers, leaning back in his seat, seemingly at ease. He shrugs, as if the fondness in his tone didn’t betray a hefty understatement. “It’s very easy to get lost in,” He adds.

Something in Tom’s head clicks loudly into place, a puzzle piece he didn’t realize he’d been searching for, and he blinks in surprise as Orion hums his agreement.

Evans _never_ got lost.

Not once in the previous month did he see Evans arrive late to a class, panting and flushed from running from all the way across the castle due to an errant staircase. Not once has he asked for directions, squinted in confusion at the greenhouses or the Astronomy tower, fallen for a trick step or a false door, followed the mocking advice of rowdier portraits entertaining themselves with the students’ misfortunes.

 _Evans never got lost_.

 _How interesting,_ Tom thinks, and nearly startles at the knowing smile in the other boy’s face. At the tilt of his head, at how he’s mirroring Tom’s pose.

He nearly startles at the _challenge_.

 _How interesting_ , Tom thinks again, giddy and restless and fascinated, like a child learning about the workings of a shiny, new toy.

“I can imagine,” Tom agrees, pleasantry intact but smile sharpening at the corners. “It’s curious, though. I can’t remember _seeing_ you get lost.”

“Oh, they gave us a tour in the summer,” The response is prompt, dismissive, and obviously rehearsed. “Dumbledore and Dippet, that is. A basic rundown of the school so we wouldn’t bother any Prefects needlessly, you know. The first years are a handful already.”

“Nonsense. I’d be more than happy to show you around, should you ever need it,” Druella interrupts, scowling. “And so would Tom. Right, Tom?”

“Certainly,” He agrees. “Hogwarts is confusing, at first. I recall that very well from our first year.”

“I kept missing the right turn for the Charms classroom,” Orion adds, put upon. “I always ended up in one of the abandoned corridors. They’re downright _creepy_ , I’m telling you.”

“I suppose I just have a good sense of direction,” Evans shrugs again, the gesture disjointed, and Tom grins.

“Yes,” He agrees, pleased as the cat who got the canary. “I’m sure you do.”

The line of Evans’ shoulders, which progressively relaxed throughout the conversation, immediately pulls taut again. Abraxas perks up as he reads the danger in Tom’s voice, a well-practiced sneer working its way across his pointy features.

“Isn’t it a bit sudden,” The blond asks, mock pity colouring his voice, interweaving with disdain and raising even Tom’s hackles. “For _your lot_ to join us at OWL year? There’s no way a couple of no-name wizards and witches could have raised you to be on par with our curriculum.”

“That’s a good point, actually,” Tom smiles, readily picks up Abraxas’ cue. Remembering that Evans seemed bothered by Tom’s conversation with Slughorn the other day, remembering his apparent lack of interest in the more theoretical aspects of their classes. It isn’t a stretch to imagine that the other boy might be building up some insecurity or uncertainty regarding his class performance, and Tom welcomes any and all insight the topic might bring. “We’d be more than happy to help if you find yourself with difficulties keeping up with the course material. But if the difference is too jarring, surely Dippet wouldn’t mind moving you down a year or two,” And if it brings with it the perfect chance to poke and prod at Evans’ defenses a bit, well - Tom has never been opposed to playing with his food.

Ivor snickers into his palm as Druella’s mutinous look blazes into a fully-fledged glare. It makes sense that Harry has clung to her so fiercely when he looks at them side by side. 

After all, fire knows fire.

She looks ready to jump in and come to her friend’s defense, but Evans stops her with what sounds like a genuine _laugh_ , and Tom’s brain stops short at the sound. He’d expected scowling and a scathing retort, or sullen silence, or literally _anything_ but this.

“Oh my God.” Evans’ mirth is blatant and unashamed, and his grin widens as every wizard raised teen blanches at the Muggle expression. “You’re all trying so hard, it’s kind of cute.”

_What._

“Excuse me?” Abraxas breathes, gone pale with insult and Evans snorts.

He gestures in their vague direction. “This whole thing. You’re trying to size me up, see if I _bite_. I’ll admit, you have the posture and the… the _presence,_ ” He says, nodding at Tom, that _knowing_ smile back on his face and it’s a struggle not to balk. “But the rest of it? Clumsy. Insulting my relatives, my _grades_ ?” He snorts. “That’s nearing _childish_.”

He gets up and dusts off his greying, secondhand robes.

“For your information,” He continues, conversationally. “I’m not easily intimidated.”

Then, he smiles. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And just - leaves.

Tom’s left staring at the spot Evans occupied just moments ago, the conversation replaying itself in his head. He blocks out Abraxas’ sputtering and Druella’s taunting, ignores Orion’s admiring eyes and Ivor’s pointed lack of interest.

He’s known Evans for a month. He’s spied him loose-limbed and relaxed among his relatives; wrong-footed but cheery with Orion and Druella; focused and devoted in the few classes he seems to genuinely care for; uncomfortable and bursting at the seams with nervous energy anytime his path crossed with Tom’s.

From the very first time they exchanged glances, to that game-changing Potions class.

No, Tom realizes with a start, no, that’s wrong. Evans was uncomfortable then, too. Blunt, as he seemed to favour, but guarded, feet firmly planted behind a tall and inscrutable wall.

His attitude only changed when Tom made his move; when he’d looked upon Evans, a wager on his tongue and a promise in his veins, and issued a challenge.

And, the same way he’s just seen - Evans _transformed_.

 _He likes a challenge_ , Tom thought, and he was wrong.

 _He’s a challenger_ , Tom thinks, and knows he’s right.

The certainty carries him through a weekend of extracurricular studying, homework, duelling practice with the Knights, and the usual hustle and bustle of life in Slytherin. It powers the new blasting curse he’s learnt, and it sends him into a frenzied rewrite of his Defense essay on Patroni when he notices the absurd length of Evans’ parchment.

When Monday dawns, cloudy and cold, Tom is ready to put his new plan into practice. If he has to taunt Evans into compliance, into honesty; if he has to force into reality those flickers of brilliance and _something else_ that keep peeking through, then he’s more than happy to become a nuisance.

He walks to Ancient Runes with a purposeful stride, flanked by Ivor and Orion at each side. On Mondays, they have class with the Ravenclaws, not the Gryffindors, and Tom is determined to only leave one seat vacant for Evans to occupy.

The bell rings just as that same boy is crossing the threshold of the classroom. He grins sheepishly at Professor Fell’s arched eyebrows and then, without a single moment of stilted hesitation, Evans makes his way to the vacant seat next to Tom. He sags in his chair, glasses askew and breathing heavily, but still smiling.

Tom crows, internally, over how _easy_ this is.

“Made it just in time,” Evans whispers as he bends over his bag, taking out his carving board and knife, as well as quill and parchment.

Tom scoffs. “You always do.”

Evans’ grin widens at that. He looks at Tom with that _knowing_ glint, in eyes that seem too bright; in a face that seems now, when Tom is properly looking, a bit too _odd_. Tom looks back, daring as intended, when Evans does something that sends a shock through Tom’s entire body; that makes his stomach flutter as if the ground has dropped from beneath his feet:

He _winks_.

*

A week passes and Tom isn’t sure what happened. He can’t pinpoint the change, the second in which the beginning of his perfectly curated plan somehow turned into the moment when the planet tilted on its axis and decided to stay that way.

He isn’t sure what happened, but he knows something has.

“So,” Evans says, dropping down next to Tom during breakfast, the next morning. “Amortentia. I have no bloody clue how to start that. Are there potions labs we can use during the week, or is brewing restricted to class time?”

He looks very casual, grabbing a piece of toast and buttering it like this is the sort of thing he does every day.

Like he has breakfast with the Slytherins every day.

“Good morning, Harry,” Orion greets from Tom’s other side. “Did you have a falling out with your relatives?”

Evans wrinkles his nose. “No? Why do you ask?”

Orion smiles. “Oh. You don’t usually sit with us during breakfast.”

“Well, yeah, but you keep telling me I should, and you have a point. We’re housemates, now!” He smiles, wide and faked. “We should get along.”

“Must we?” Abraxas murmurs and Tom kicks him under the table.

“Quite right,” He says, instead. “According to the upper years, Slughorn generally allows for supervised brewing off class time. He should be giving us the schedule for that very soon.”

Evans nods, chewing. Thankfully, he swallows before continuing. “I read up on Amortentia and love potions in general. You know, for this week’s report. Then I remembered who I was working with, and I figured you probably didn’t want my incompetent hands anywhere near a paper that is going to be graded.”

Tom isn’t sure whether to feel insulted, amused, or relieved.

Probably a mix of all three.

Still, no matter how much he’d rather take care of the report by himself and make sure it is up to his standards, there’s no denying the opportunity this presents.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We both have a free period after Ancient Runes, we can head to the library and work on it together. You should show me what you’ve been reading, and we can figure out our angle.” Speaking off - Tom casts a tempus charm, and sighs. “We’ll run late if we wait any longer. See you later, Orion.”

The other waves. Evans’ movements are jerky as he stands up, his eyes darting to Gryffindor table repeatedly.

 _His cousin takes Ancient Runes,_ Tom remembers with a burst of clarity. _Now, that won’t do_.

He trades a glance with Abraxas and jerks his head, subtly, towards Evans.

Abraxas rolls his eyes, but says, dutifully: “Hurry _up_ , Evans. I swear to Merlin, you idiot, if you make us late I’ll turn you into a _pincushion_.”

“As if,” Evans sneers. He clutches his bag with a tight grip and moves past Tom with a scowl, stride determined and unflinching.

 _Perfect_.

Ancient Runes passes quickly, although learning a new alphabet - with characters that are drawn differently than what he’s used to - means that he’ll likely end up with some serious wrist ache. Which doesn’t bode well for the research and writing he’ll have to do right after class. Tom wonders if he’ll need to visit the Infirmary.

Bloody quills.

 _Later_ , he thinks, bringing his attention back to the present moment. Evans sits next to him, loose-limbed and languid, in the quiet table they’d snagged in one of the corners of the library. They’re both reading over the guidelines for the aforementioned report, and, as Tom’s eyes go over the instructions, he starts thinking that this is really just a professional copout on Slughorn’s part. 

“If someone fucks up, Slughorn doesn’t get the blame,” Evans snorts. “Figures.”

Tom hums. “It’s clever of him, of course.”

“Of course,” Evans echoes and there’s that tilt to his mouth. Like he’s _amused,_ like he’s just _waiting_ for the punchline, and it makes Tom want to _shake_ it out of him.

So, instead, he ignores it.

“Precautions and dangers associated with each brewing phase,” He reads out loud. “Out of the top of my mind, for Amortencia, we’ll have to restrict the smell -”

They work quickly, and smoothly. Evans is no undiscovered potions prodigy, certainly, but he also doesn't seem as terrible as he makes himself out to be in class. He listens and nods along as Tom directs his attention here and there, comes up with his own ideas, and doesn’t shy away from contributing. They work _well_ , Tom realizes with a jolt of surprise.

It’s nice.

It’s, evidently, too nice.

“I can’t believe Slughorn is making us do this,” Evans groans, rubbing his eyes. They’re about to pack up and go to Herbology. “Lazy bugger. Isn’t this the sort of thing he’s meant to _teach_? You know, as a _teacher_?”

Of course, Evans has a point. It’s somewhat reckless of their Professor, but that’s Slughorn. The man is a genius, and he’s confident that his skill compensates for any oversight or neglect.

Of course, Evans has a point. But Tom has worked too hard to rise above the ranks of mediocrity to not see the value on teaching methods that aim to single out those who are _better_.

“He _is_ teaching. He’s giving us the methods and means to figure things out on our own.”

Evans raises two disbelieving eyebrows and there’s something about it - something in the studied _disdain_ of it, in the way his forehead arches and his cheekbones curve, that catches Tom’s attention.

Something about the way it so closely resembles every pureblooded sneer he’s seen over the last four years, echoed in the face of a no-name mudblood.

“That’s bullshit. This sort of stuff is _dangerous._ If someone doesn’t care enough to look -”

“Then they’ve earned whatever comes their way, no?” Tom shoots back. A jolt of electricity courses through him, bright and fast, and Evans’ eyes _flash._

“Of course not!” It’s _fascinating_ , the way he responds. There’s that famed fire, yes, that unwillingness to back down that everyone in Slytherin has seen time and time again. But his words - _sting_ . There’s something about him that feels _sharp_. “Just because someone is slacking off, doesn’t mean they deserve any of the stuff we’ve been reading about-”

“Which _you_ only know, because you’ve been _reading about it_.” Evans snaps his mouth closed. There’s an energy to him, a restlessness that must be contagious because Tom can feel it, curling up his limbs and buzzing in his chest and making the corners of his mouth curl up in a grin. “Be honest, Evans, it’s just the two of us here. Would you have paid nearly as much attention if Slughorn droned out about precautions and associated risks in class?”

It feels unwise, maybe, to provoke him further, especially in the library. But Tom can’t help it, not with this creature forged in flame, not when Evans is left staring at him with all that _fight_ burning under the surface.

Tom Riddle is many things - but he’s never been _wise_.

“Still, Merlin knows your precious Gryffindors and mudbloods won’t manage anything further than the _basics_. Sort of embarrassing.”

He’s expecting darkening fury, bristling at the slur and the slights and everything.

He’s not expecting that quick, knife-sharp grin.

“So, you agree?” Evans asks. “This teaching method is unfair for people with fewer resources and less access to the required texts, and favours the sort of purebloods that can almost pay someone else to research _for_ them?”

There’s a beat of silence and Tom can’t - speak.

He’s always been proud of his argumentative skills, of twisting and taunting his various victims with enough subtlety to pass unnoticed, to sidestep the discussion entirely if he can help it. How many people has he left sputtering and confused out of their thought processes, much to the admiration of whatever mindless mobs might be watching?

He’s used to _winning_ , whether or not he’s right.

This is - this is new.

“That’s not what I said,” Tom says, at last.

Evans laughs. “Isn’t it?”

Part of him feels, distantly, like this blatant disrespect should warrant some sort of _anger_ , a measured response. Like, at least, this should make him _warier_ , more inclined to break off whatever charade he’s goaded himself into, to step away.

But Tom Riddle is many things, and _wise_ is not one of them.

The restlessness that crept into him, like a parasite, is buzzing insistently. There’s a hitch in the back of his throat, a steadily quickening heartbeat pounding away in his chest.

When Abraxas or Orion argue, rare as it may be, his response is fast and frigid. Druella annoys him, certainly, Demetrius Avery tests his patience, and he’s learnt to treat other disruptive housemates with nothing but carefully applied, polite disdain - nothing to indicate that they _matter_ . Nothing to indicate that they pose any sort of _threat_ , that can give them the impression that they might have rattled him.

Nothing that can give them _power_.

If any one of them managed to twist his words around like this - Tom would be _furious_.

He isn’t.

He’s _interested_.

*

Evans’ odd behaviour becomes, slowly, the new norm. Now, Tom isn’t the one coordinating his packing with the other’s, and purposefully matching their strides every time their timetables match. Now, Tom isn’t the one sending his allies ahead to manipulate the seating arrangements so that the only available seat is always the one next to himself. Now -

Now, Evans does all of that of his own volition.

He waits for Tom if he packs first. They walk into classrooms together. Instead of spending every single, nauseating second with his relatives, he takes to Tom’s side with an ease that both excites Tom and creates an insurmountable amount of tension among their year group; among, even, some of their housemates from other years. Avery, notably, develops an annoying habit of hanging around their studying table and making snide comments that do nothing but annoy Evans to the point of quill snapping.

But what’s _fascinating_ in the midst of all this, what keeps Tom’s eyes firmly rooted in this new oddity, is that, between the two of them, they _always_ find something to talk about, to _argue_ about, something to discuss - their tempers equally mercurial, their stubbornness equally matched, their intensity equally _alarming_.

It’s in these moments that he finds himself reviewing and checking boxes of all the traits he’d identified in Evans. He _never_ backs down from an argument, he’s never cowed; he knows just what to say, how to throw Tom off the loop and make him scramble for an answer.

 _He’s a challenger_ , he remembers thinking days ago, and dear God it’s true.

It’s chilling, and terrifying, and _exhilarating._ That feeling, first experienced among book and parchment and teaching merits, doesn’t fade. Tom can’t remember the last time someone dared to stand up to him, dared to say _you’re wrong_ and done so with nary a thought for Tom’s power, or standing, or intelligence. When the world around him did that, back at the orphanage and in his first year in Slytherin, it felt like penury, like a verdict, like a _sentence_.

When Evans does it, it feels like a thing with barbed wire, like the world’s most twisted form of encouragement. Like _I know you can do better than that_ , like _watch me_ , like _come and play._

 _Fire knows fire_ , he remembers thinking, and dear God, it’s true.

*

Druella snags the seat next to Tom’s in their next Divination class, leaving Orion floundering for a second, before he shrugs and picks another seat.

Tom eyes her warily, for a second, noticing the uncharacteristic blandness of her visage. There’s a number of things that could lead her to reach out to him in such a way - they’re both Prefects, any shared responsibility or changes must be shared and discussed. 

But she could do that at any moment, and it seems unlikely that the middle of a class would be the most auspicious one for the occasion.

Which does significantly narrow down possibilities.

“The last entry of my dream journal is rather boring,” She says. “Do you mind if I talk about an older one?”

“Not at all.”

“Brilliant. So, I dreamt this around..oh, a week or so. There was a snake, crawling around the floor of a beautiful forest, with a lot of tiny snakes following its lead. And a new snake decided to join in the pack - a bit different from the rest, a brighter colour, a shorter temper. It stood in the outskirts of the group for a while until, suddenly, the leader took a completely bewildering interest in the new snake. The pack followed, but I remember waking up rather confused, because I couldn’t _think_ of any logical explanation for the leader’s behaviour.”

Well. Druella is renowned for her ruthlessness, not her subtlety.

Tom doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a near thing. He offers her a considering hum, and makes a show of perusing the pages of his dream interpretation book.

“Dreaming of snakes could mean healing, or they could mean that you must cut a toxic element from your personal life. Regardless of the meaning, it’s meant to be important.” He reads, before snapping the book closed, and smiling at her slight start. “But I personally adhere more to Jequ’s approach to dream interpretation; that it depends on the personal connotation of the objects, rather than a dictated, universal one. Perhaps you’d like to, ah, _elaborate._ ”

She scowls. “I like the weird snake, and I’m worried about what your schemes could mean for him.”

“No particular feelings on snakes in general, then?”

“Weird to the touch but generally cute.”

“Then the imagery of your dream must certainly be positive.”

“ _Tom_.”

“I’m not the one who ambushed my classmate during _class time_ and proceeded to subject them to a rather terrible attempt at subterfuge,” He snaps back, coldly, and her posture straightens reflexively. She’s not easily cowed but _fire knows fire_ and Tom is long past concealing his fangs _._ “Don’t presume to _demand_ answers for questions you are unwilling to ask.”

A tense silence settles between them, and Tom’s fingers twitch in want of a wand.

“Harry is different from anyone else around here,” She says, after a long pause. Her tone is noticeably softer, but her unyielding gaze is still fixed on him. “He won’t back down, no matter what sort of game you decide to play. He’ll just push back twice as hard. I know you, Tom. I don’t want you to break him.”

The notion is unthinkable - the absurdity of it rings around Tom’s mind with a clarity he can’t place right away. It’s an instinctive _refusal_ , for some reason, a quiet voice in the back of his head that _balks_ at the notion that Evans could ever do something as mundane as _break_.

“You don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Slips out, and he has to hide his alarm at the certainty that colours his tone, at the utter confidence that slams into him.

It’s unsettling, to experience such a definitive gut reaction to a statement he has no memory of having considered before, that he can’t justify to himself with any sort of proper evidence or observation. But the belief rings of steel - there’s something in the core of it that is unyielding and certain, something that cements it in his mind as _truth_ , something that gleams about it with the whimsy and whisper of - something _more_.

Druella is not subtle, but she’s sharp. Other houses may take Divination as a blow-off class, an occupation for bored Ravenclaws who want an exercise in creativity and lazy Gryffindors who can’t be bothered to put in the work for any other electives, but rarely do Slytherins mimic that sort of attitude - if they’re taking Divination it’s because it _means_ something to them.

Because Orion’s eyes glaze over every time he gazes into a crystal ball, and he keeps a tightly bound journal with small scale predictions written in coded, unreadable handwriting. Because Elina weaves and stitches runes that hum with the power of celestial placements that most people dismiss as fictitious. Because Tom clings with fervour to the notion of _fate_ , still more mystified and enamoured with the magnificence of this world than he’s willing to admit, still unshaken in the belief that he’s meant for something _more_ , that he can conquer any limit known and unknown to wizardkind.

Because sometimes Druella cocks her head to the side and speaks in muted tongues, because when her tea leafs sediment at the bottom of her cup they always take shape, because when Tom’s voice rings with a force that isn’t his -

She hears it.

She eyes him, for a second, impossibly dark eyes seeing straight through him and Tom feels his throat dry up with the weight of that gaze.

“Yes,” She says in a low tone, without looking away. “Yes, I see it. He almost _shines_ , you know. I can’t quite put my finger in it, but Harry and those cousins of his -”

“They’re _off_.” Tom agrees. “I’ve noticed.”

“They’re displaced. Somehow,” She tilts her head to the side. “I’m still scared for him, and I don’t trust whatever you’re doing, especially if you don’t know why you’re doing it in the first place. But I _do_ know Harry, Tom.”

She taps the clear glass of their little round table with one finely manicured nail. The noise rings for longer than it should have, the pitch climbing impossibly high. It sticks to his ears, a damning resonance that makes his eyes water. It sends a shiver through him, an involuntary reaction that he can’t quite avoid, and Druella’s eyes gleam with satisfaction that isn’t hers.

“And I don’t think you’re quite ready for what may come your way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! Kudos and comments are appreciated and encourage productivity by making the author feel guilty when they inevitably procrastinate writing arc 2!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told myself i was going to update this yesterday, but then i made Bad Choices and ended up spending the day nursing a hangovere instead. so here we are!

Druella’s ominous words stick with Tom for longer than he’d like to admit.

They sit heavy behind his eyes, impossible to ignore as he tracks every minute movement that Evans makes. Tom’s gaze lingers on his face, cataloguing any and every oddity. _ And I don’t think you’re quite ready for what may come your way _ , sounds again and again in the back of his head, an unparalleled and intolerable smugness that leaves him itchy and restless.

But, all the same, it’s  _ easy _ to forget about it. It’s easy to stop worrying, to shift his thoughts onto other matters, to leave these circular fears behind. It’s easy because all Evans has to do is open his mouth and chaos will inevitably follow and demand Tom’s attention.

Their Potions work sessions are an unmitigated  _ disaster _ . Tom remembers thinking that Evans was no secret Potions prodigy, certainly, but that he was also not completely  _ terrible _ \- but now, Tom knows better. Evans is careless and easily distracted, allergic to detail and fact-checking. There’s no  _ time _ to despair over a half baked prophecy, over the spiteful words of a girl Tom has no reason for even  _ trusting - _

_ (other than his gut and his intellect and his belief in forces beyond their control. other than the cadence of her voice and the way his ears popped, the way it felt, just for a second, like he was flailing underwater, like he was swimming against a current -) _

\- when he’s too busy overseeing his potion and his fellow potioneer alike.

_ Maybe I should have tried out for Quidditch _ , Tom thinks to himself, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood at the fourth consecutive time his hand darts out with uncanny speed. So far he’s been fast enough to catch whatever wrong ingredient Evans decided to damn their project with.

“Were you blessed with the gift of  _ sight _ ?” Tom nearly hisses, slamming down the beetle wings on the table with more force than was probably necessary.

Evans’ raised eyebrows are supremely unimpressed, and those beetle wings still pressed against the table are ground just a little bit finer. “I don’t know, Riddle, maybe you’ve noticed that I wear glasses -”

“There is absolutely no prescription in the world that can justify mixing up beetle wings and  _ doxie eggs _ .”

“I have  _ really  _ bad eyesight.”

It’s - a struggle.

When they work well together - when they’re brainstorming, discussing concepts, arguing on the merits of a curse or a jinx, or competing to see who will master a new spell first - they work  _ great _ together. It’s quick and seamless, like a sophisticated machine, well-oiled cogs spinning in harmony and pushing each other to move forwards.

But when they  _ don’t _ -

“He’s like a  _ bleedin’  _ Gryffindor!” Tom nearly growls out in frustration, throwing his messenger back in the vague direction of his bed, uncaring of where it falls. His inkwells are all strengthened with unbreakable charms, and he doesn’t take to carrying food around, so there’s nothing to damage.

It’s a relief, for one, because Tom couldn’t really afford to fix the damage. Hogwarts’ scholarship funds can only get him so far, and he’s not willing to depend on his yearmates anymore than absolutely necessary.

But it’s also rather bothersome. He’s frustrated enough to require an  _ outlet _ , and smashing a bunch of phials would be immensely satisfying.

Abraxas nods sagely. “He is.”

“ _ I have really bad eyesight _ ,” Tom intones, mock seriousness colouring his syllables and making Ivor snort. “He’s lucky we were in an enclosed space with plenty of volatile materials around, or I’d show him some bad eyesight -”

“It’s interesting,” Ivor interrupts. His voice has deepened somewhere during the past couple of months. It still startles Tom. “He really gets to you.”

“It’s not  _ interesting _ , it’s common sense,” Abraxas huffs, nose up in the air. “Good on you, Tom.”

“Shut up, Abraxas,” Rather than wait for the blond’s indignation-filled retort, Ivor plows on. “It’s not the first time you get paired up with idiots, Tom. Why is this so different?”

_ Why is he so different _ , he doesn’t say, but Tom hears it anyway. His gaze is knowing, a clear blue so unlike hers,  _ a dark, heavy-lidded gaze fixed on his like the eyes of the universe, _ and Tom looks away.

“I suppose I must have found a brand new shape of stupid,” He says, instead of what really wants to come out, which is  _ there’s something about him that calls to me, I can’t stop myself from looking when he passes by, it’s like there’s a string between us that pulls and pulls and pulls and the worst thing, Ivor, is that I think he feels it too - _

Abraxas laughs, an errant harmony warring against Tom’s whirlwind of thoughts.

They follow him, those carefully worded sentences, shackling and frigid.

It speaks of his state of mind - of his scattered thoughts, of the total upheaval of his life and social circle, of the electricity buzzing beneath his skin - that the  _ girl _ is even able to sneak up on him, during one of his Prefect rounds, and after curfew no less.

“Leave Harry alone.” 

The command is sharp, clear, and it echoes against the stone walls, leaving the air rattling in its wake. Tom wasn’t expecting it - but he also can’t say he’s surprised.

He turns around and puts on his best smile.

“Why would I do that?”

The girl narrows her eyes. Her red hair is like a fiery halo and if his thoughts weren’t already consumed by black hair and bright green eyes, he would think her pretty.

He would think her beautiful.

“You’re a bad influence,” She spits and his interest immediately narrows at the pure, unadulterated hatred in her eyes. “You’re just manipulating him so he’ll spend time with you. It’s not working, you should leave him alone. He doesn’t want to be with you anymore.”

Oh, this is interesting.

Tom laughs, short and ever so slightly  _ mocking, _ and sees her expression morph from determined to shocked, to angry, and fast forward to thunderous in a matter of seconds.

_ Oh, that is - _

“Interesting,” He drawls, and smiles. It’s not one of his nice smiles, no, this one has too many  _ teeth _ . “I hadn’t realized he felt uncomfortable, rather the opposite. So I  _ have _ to wonder if it’s really  _ Harry _ who feels uncomfortable, or if it’s you… Ginny, is it?”

“Prewett’s  _ fine _ .”

“Of course, my apologies. Forgive the intrusion - and I might be wrong, of course - but I didn’t get the impression that Harry was the type to let others fight his battles.”

“He’s not, but we’re family,” Her cheeks are red, freckles standing starkly visible even in the dim lighting and it’s great, it feels  _ good _ to see her lose her composure, to see her bend and bend until she  _ breaks _ . “His battles are my battles,” And here a sneer twists her features. Tom has half a second to blink in surprise before she drives the knife in, and drives it deep. “But, of course, you wouldn’t know anything about  _ family _ , would you, Riddle?”

He feels his smile freeze in his face, feels his stomach sink, feels his heart skip a beat. Then it becomes to beat faster, and the electricity coursing through him is replaced by the more familiar thrumming heat of  _ rage _ .

“That’s enough, Ginny.”

Hearing that voice is enough to snap Tom back. He fights to keep his expression in check as a whisper of  _ anticipation _ courses through him like lightning. As he sees Evans walk right by him and stand in front of Prewett. Tom can only see her face, see her wide brown eyes and the slack set of her mouth, how that fiery halo of hair, which so suited her in confrontation, diminishes in her surprise. Tom can only see how the tension snaps into her frame as Evans speaks:

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His tone is quiet and, to those not paying attention, it might seem calm. But Tom  _ has _ been paying attention, a whole lot of it, and he  _ feels _ the chill that weaves through the syllables. It’s a warning that the girl certainly feels, for she seems to almost  _ flinch _ .

“I was sticking up for you. We’re family, remember?” Her voice is sure, unwavering in its intensity, matching her bold expression but not her averted eyes, not her  _ uncertainty _ .

“Is that what you call ‘blatantly lying to other people behind my back”? The words are nearly  _ hissed,  _ spat out without warning and Prewett takes a step back. “I don’t need you meddling in my life, and my battles are definitely not your battles. Besides,” His whole posture relaxes and his voice seems almost playful as he continues. “I wouldn’t know anything about family, would I, Ginny?”

It seems almost playful, but it’s not.

It’s like a thing with barbed wire; just cruel and sharp enough to hurt.

Prewett takes another step back, arms instinctively coming up as if for protection, as if to ward off an attack, before she takes notice and controls the impulse. She clenches her fists and looks at Evans, pointedly ignoring Tom.

“We need to talk,” She says, words like cut glass. “Hermione and Ron told me to come get you. Meet us at the usual place,” She regains some of her bravery then, and adds, snidely, “Whenever you’re done with  _ him _ .”

And, without another word, she turns around and walks away.

Evans looks after her departing figure for a short moment, before he turns partially, his left side facing Tom. Evans stands perfectly still, silent,  _ angry _ and something in Tom seems to snap into place as he gazes, transfixed. He never understood, before, when people compared others to a work of art, but is there any other way to describe this? To describe Evans like this, close and vulnerable and spiteful, danger made flesh?

It makes Tom feel dizzy, the overlapping images, all the versions of this boy he’s seen so far. It makes him feel dizzy, it makes him feel slightly nauseous for a second before things align perfectly in his mind and Tom feels - something. A yearning. A pull in his chest.

_ Resonance. _

“I should probably go.”

“You should,” Tom agrees, voice thankfully steady.

Evans turns to look at him,  _ truly  _ look at him and they stand silently for a bit, their eyes never leaving each other. Evaluating, reassessing: two predators in quiet contemplation.

Finally, Evans smiles and there’s an edge to it that feels jagged, and torn, and fits perfectly into Tom’s new perception of this boy.

“Are you going to take points?”

Tom tilts his head to the side. He knows it’s unsettling; he remembers the way the matrons’ eyes back at the orphanage would tighten, the way their mouths would tremble into a frown.

But this boy’s smile only grows wider. Only grows that little bit  _ sharper _ . “So?”

“Why should I take points?”

Evans laughs.

“You’re a Prefect, Riddle. We’re out past curfew.”

And it’s true - they are. If any of the portraits decide to blather on to the teachers about this little moment, it will be profoundly annoying to have to talk himself out of not dishing out the typical punishment for such rule-breaking.

But it might be worth it if he gets something else out of it.

“Well,” Tom draws the word out, enjoys Evans’ eye roll. “I guess you’ll just have to give me a good enough explanation. Good enough to make up for it.”

“Sounds fair,” Evans nods, and his expression takes on a more serious note. “Don’t worry, Riddle. I won’t keep you waiting.” And, just like that, he leaves.

_ Oh, Harry. You certainly won’t. _

Tom brings his rounds to an abrupt halt, turning on his heel and storming down the corridor. He goes through every single secret passage he can recall, going through the castle in record time until he’s briskly walking through the shadowed and chilling dungeons. He spits the password as soon as he reaches the entrance, barely waiting for the wall to part before he’s walking through.

The room is, thankfully, empty. The fire flickers, embers warm and soft in the half-light, and Tom walks purposefully to the comfortable lounge that Orion usually claims. He sits down heavily, lets himself sink down into softness, and only  _ then _ does he think about what just transpired. Only then does he allow himself to go over the whole interaction with a fine-toothed comb.

First, the  _ accusation _ .

It’s bewildering and suspicious in equal measure. It came, quite literally, out of the blue, at least as far as Tom is concerned. He’s never met this girl in his life, he’s quite sure he never exchanged two words with her before that very night. Everything she  _ could _ be accusing him of, like the Knights and respective excursions to the Restricted Section of the library; the little spats with his housemates that veered over the line of  _ legality _ and perhaps  _ morality _ ; his effort to maintain an immaculate image; hell, maybe his less than fortunate dealings at the orphanage - everything she  _ could _ be accusing him of, everything that could make a witch stare him up and down and claim  _ bad influence _ \- she had no way of knowing. Any of it. There’s no feasible way she  _ could  _ know anything truly incriminating.

And yet… that  _ hatred _ . The genuine contempt in her voice, the  _ fear _ she emitted in heavy, defiant waves. There was  _ intent  _ behind those words. Perhaps that’s why Tom doesn’t dismiss them as readily as he would like to. Regardless of whether or not they are justified, regardless of whether or not Tom has done anything to truly deserve them -

they ring with  _ truth _ .

And that makes them troubling.

Second, the  _ interaction _ .

It doesn’t matter how much he’s already observed of Evans’ relationship with his relatives, the ease with which the other boy carries himself around them, the conspiring looks they trade now and then, which speak of years of familiarity. He  _ never _ would have guessed that this sort of  _ tension _ could be hiding beyond all of those sickening moments of laughter and affection. Because this is not the tension between Druella and Abraxas, of a turbulent, complicated relationship spanning much longer and much deeper than their five years of schooling. This is not the tension between Orion and his siblings, that flutters and wanes with their mercurial moods but never really crosses a line. This is the sort of tension that speaks of  _ resentment _ , of  _ distrust _ . The sort of tension that makes a shrewd Slytherin look and think  _ I can use this. _

A brief surge of satisfaction crosses through him as he remembers Prewett’s  _ fear _ towards her own blood and kin.

Which brings him, of course, to Evans himself.

To the way he stood there, chilling and violent in the moonlight. That bluntness about him twisting and deforming, weaponized into  _ cruelty _ .

It’s delightful, it’s what it is, how that cold-blooded creature spent a month hiding under his nose, behind the guise of a lionheart.

But this begs the question -  _ what _ is he to do with Evans?

He’s known, for years now, that oftentimes this House of ambition he’s found himself in is  _ wasted _ on those with no vision, with no fire, on those who have been born into privilege and know little but luxury, want little but to  _ keep _ that luxury. The sort of people who don’t even know how to aim for the stars, because they’ve learnt contentment in their high towers.

Tom isn’t like that. Everything he has, he’s built himself.

And it’s becoming increasingly clear that Evans isn’t like that either.

Tom wants  _ too much _ , and that’s rather the problem. His future is a messy, murky thing, hanging in a not-so-distant horizon that looms ever closer. Like all bright children with boundless ambition and a crushing desire to rise above their station, Tom’s ideas and plans for the future shift and swirl in accordance with his mercurial moods.

The heady, awe-inspiring prowess of a Dark Lord, a force of nature, untamed and uncowed; the luxury of a Minister of Magic, newspaper smiles and elite outings, power handed to him on a silver platter of adoring crowds; the invisible threads in the hands of the players who remain in the shadows, greedy fingers handling and twisting an intricate web of bribes and blackmail, inflicting his vision onto the world without none the wiser; the mysteries of life as an unspeakable, the renown of a barrister, the poise of an academic -

The quiet life, he thinks with a pang, of a Hogwarts professor. Forever wandering these stone castle walls, humming with magic and wonder; a lifetime to explore, endless years ahead to search every crevice of the home he’s grown to love with fervour.

His future is a murky, messy thing. 

Tom is brilliant, and angry, and disillusioned. The world around him is slow and stagnant, the  _ powers that be _ grown complacent and inbred, grown overconfident. Coming into the Wizarding World after watching how fast the Muggles surpassed themselves, built and innovated, was profoundly jarring. Figuring out how out of date all the information about Muggles was -  _ about the population next door, which had firearms instead of spells and out populated them at a ratio that was nothing short of terrifying -  _ turned the whole experience surreal. It’s no wonder someone like Grindelwald has risen to power, Tom thinks more often than not. Wizards have  _ no idea _ who much of a threat Muggles have grown into.

And that’s another problem, isn’t it? Tom isn’t the sort to smile and nod and pretend like the Muggles aren’t a  _ problem _ , he  _ knows _ how their hatred and fear can harm a magical child. But - are all of them bad? Logic would claim otherwise. Tom doesn’t know what to think.

Here’s what Tom does know: he’s smart and charming. Whatever path he takes, whatever prospects await him - he knows he craves  _ power _ , in whatever form it may be.

The person who finally succeeds in solving the Muggle issue will surely harness a lot of power - political sway, influence,  _ renown _ .

A name in the history books, a memory made eternal.

And Tom likes that idea. He likes that idea a lot.

He’s made connections, ensured the admiration and obedience of his year mates. He’s put together a study group, where they can all grow and better themselves with the magic these feeble-minded people have declared  _ dangerous _ . He’s plotting his way across an upheaval of the current House hierarchy - after all, he’s got the grades and the power and the shiny Prefect badge on his chest. As soon as he can confirm his magical heritage, there’s  _ nothing _ that can stop him from ascension.

So, all in all, he thinks he’s doing well.

But he’s far from ready to deal with a variable like Evans.

_ A challenger _ \- and that should mean a swift dismissal. It should mean a lesson, a threat,  _ anything _ to bring Evans down a peg and stop him from causing waves. Tom has seen it, plenty of times, starting at the very first moment the other boy sat down at the table of green and silver and proceeded to ignore every attempt at powerplay with a consistency that could only mark it as purposeful.

But there’s something about Evans that  _ calls _ to him. Something that doesn’t feel right, like he’s made of all the wrong angles. Something that brings with it a whisper of  _ thrill _ , of urgency - maybe the knowledge that he is, for the first time, perfectly matched.

Tom can’t tell how he  _ knows _ this - the same way he can’t explain these odd feelings, the same way he can’t explain the eerie cadence of Druella’s casually delivered augury, of Ivor’s far too accurate insights. It’s one of the things he  _ loves _ about his world, after all - magic peeking at every corner, seeping in with every breath, dancing across their meager lives and bodies, and driving them forwards.

And this mess begs the question -  _ what _ is he to do with Evans?

He’ll never cower like the others, Tom is sure of that much. He’ll never back down, he’ll never be satisfied in subservience, he’ll never  _ shut up _ . And truth be told - Tom doesn’t think he  _ wants _ him to.

Which is another, altogether different problem.

Focused as he is, eyes fixed on the upholstery right in front of him, it’s no wonder he barely takes notice of the sound the wall makes as it slides into place, after admitting someone’s entrance. He doesn’t hear footsteps or robes rustling. Tom does notice, however, the sudden shift in balance when a weight collapses in the space next to him.

Evans sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, far beyond his years, at least for a moment. Then he opens one eye and looks at Tom.

“Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence as they both stare at each other.

“That was a rather anticlimactic opening to follow a very dramatic scene,” Tom comments, tone light, when he figures that they’ve been quiet for long enough.

Evans snorts, and then groans. “That it was.”

“And I thought you said you wouldn’t keep me waiting.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Evans answers with a humourless smile. “When Ginny said they ‘wanted to talk’, I didn’t expect a full-blown argument.”

Tom arches his eyebrows in surprise. Really?

“What was the argument about?” He asks, instead of voicing his surprise.

“You, of course.”

...wasn’t he even going to try to hide it?

“Funny,” Tom replies, and it’s not funny at all. Evans sounds resigned, exasperated, and above all  _ unsurprised _ . Alarm bells are going off in Tom’s head. “I don’t remember ever being the subject of someone else’s family arguments. Least of all, of manipulating someone into spending time with me.”

“Ginny is… something else,” Evans sighs, once again. “Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll bother you again.”

“Are you sure? She was very, ah,  _ insistent, _ ” Tom presses on and smiles. It feels slightly too sharp on his face, and he senses more than sees the minute shifts in Evans’ body language. It’s delightful, it’s terrifying, having someone else so attuned to his moods that even the most subtle of cues evokes such a response. “I’ve been called a great many things - a teacher’s pet, a know-it-all, a  _ mudblood _ \- but a ‘bad influence’ was never among those.”

Something flashes through Evans’ eyes, there and gone again, and Tom feels, deep in his gut, that sense of  _ wrongness  _ again.

“I think she’s just being paranoid,” Evans says, with what Tom is sure to be meant as an easy shrug. “With everything that has happened, I guess it’s normal that she’s, well. A bit distrustful of outsiders.” He smiles apologetically. “No offense.”

Tom forces himself to smile back. “None taken.”

“Still,” Evans mutters, seemingly more to himself now. “It’s sort of insulting, really, that they think I’m...what? Some helpless little kid who can’t defend himself from the big bad wolf? No offense.”

“None taken,” Tom repeats, watching with interest as Evans starts fidgeting and then jumps to his feet.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m  _ stupid _ . I know what I’m doing, and it would be nice if, once in a while, someone had a little faith! Isn’t that a revolutionary concept?”

“Truly,” Tom agrees, mouth running on autopilot as he takes notice that the temperature of the Common Room has just  _ dropped _ . The lounge he occupies thrums with some sort of power, Evans’s eyes are taking on an eerie glow, which Evans himself seems to take no notice of.

“So what’s even the point? I don’t need any of them ordering me around, mothering me! I’ve never  _ had _ a mother, I’ve done  _ fine _ without a mother,  _ I don’t need one now!” _

He gestures widely as he speaks, voice climbing up in volume and it takes every ounce of Tom’s restraint not to stare too obviously as something sends a tremor through the air and makes the entire room  _ shake _ .

_ Oh, how interesting _ .

Tom snaps to attention as Evans stops, his shoulders slumping and guilt of truly absurd proportions taking over his visage.

“I’m sorry,” He says, all of that  _ fire _ extinguished and Tom can’t stand it. “I... I went overboard. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, perfectly understandable.”

“No, it’s not! I’m dumping all of this stuff on you. It’s not fair.”

And Tom’s brain, the brilliant, ingenious thing that it is, sends the signal before the words can be run through any proper filter. Tom doesn’t know what he’s about the say before the words spill out of his mouth.

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Wait.

What?

There’s silence. Evans is staring at him, gaping ever so slightly and eyes wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. It would be  _ hilarious _ any other time. But right now Tom is pretty sure that he’s mirroring that expression to the smallest detail

Because the thing is - this could be  _ good _ . It’s a way to solidify his connection with Evans, to bring him closer and into Tom’s eager clutches, to solve the pesky little problem of his pesky little challenger and his pesky little puzzle. The  _ idea  _ isn't the issue.

The issue is that the words left his mouth and they dripped with truth.

And  _ that _ is mortifying. Friendship is demeaning and  _ unnecessary _ , a weak, senseless phenomenon that amounted to nothing. Tom swore, long ago, that he would never fall into this trap.

“Yeah, you're right.”

Wait.

What?

Evans is smiling at him. A proper smile too, soft around the edges and soft around the eyes.

Tom feels, for a second, breathless.

“That is what friends are for. Thank you, Tom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo just like with Ridiculous, there will be another work in this series featuring some povs from other characters. you dont really have to read it to follow this story, it's more of an extra than anything else, buuuuut i think it gives yall some fun insight into the other characters. so if you want to, subscribe to the series this work is a part of and watch out for "with friends like these (who needs anybody else)" uwu
> 
> ~nyway the author appreciates kudos & comments <3

**Author's Note:**

> i'm more or less active at cealesti.tumblr.com


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